


this is not the end

by onewingedbird



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewingedbird/pseuds/onewingedbird
Summary: There is nothing so human as the yearning to love and be loved back.





	1. Prologue

Prologue

In the old world, before she had held a katana, Michonne was a partner to Mike, a mother to Andre. She was someone who bought organic food and went on raw vegan diets to “clear out toxins.” She was a lawyer and an activist who supported her community through coordinating food drives and volunteering at homeless shelters. She fought against GMO food in schools and for maintaining the arts. In both her professional and personal life, she strived to make this country better for her son, for the next generation. 

Now, she only fights to survive. There is no Mike to be a partner to. He is here beside her with no arms, no teeth, but he is not here. She cannot give or receive affection or words of encouragement. There is no support she can derive from his groaning. No, he simply wants to eat her. The Mike she loved and built a life with is gone. And Andre… 

Before the reavers had overtaken the cities completely, she could still see humanity in the groups of people she, Mike and Terry came across. They exchanged supplies and ideas of how the government would rally together and fix this, spoken with such assuredness. If they were unlucky, hopeful strangers would show them pictures of their loved ones pleading for information, though common sense said they were surely lost to the wave of reavers that had begun to crash down on the city. They accepted the news of how other cities were faring without question. Fact checking was a thing of the past. She joined up with another group, small like hers, that had shown them kindness and trusted in walls to keep her family safe from the world outside.

These days, it isn’t the reavers people should be scared of.

In the distance, she can hear screaming, and it wakes her from her sleep. She stays silent for a moment, keeping an ear out for any sounds that are closer to her. She unravels the rope that has kept her from falling out of the tree and makes her way to the ground. She pulls the katana out from her back to be safe, grabs the chain to bring her bodyguards along and walks away from the noise.

She’s no savior.

分

She found the katana when the small unit of her family was still intact. She had more use for guns back then as fear of the reavers kept her from wanting to get close enough to use her sword, but fear has been allayed by necessity. She had used up her bullets during the attack on their camp, and she’d been faced with either bludgeoning reavers to death with the butt of her gun or learning to swing her sword like a third arm.

She trained until pulling it from the sheath on her back became second nature, and it was comfortable in her hands. Now, she walks from Randolph County to Talbot, and the weight against her back is a reminder of her strength.

She does not count the days. The sun rises and sets as if the world it shines on hasn’t fallen apart. She finds a dagger in the head of a woman on I-77. Her ribs are visible, aided by passing reavers and decomposition. She finds a better belt on the body of a state trooper. She collects tools and light but effective weapons that will fit in the loops of her belt: a torsion wrench to pick locks, a red-handled dagger and a first aid kit with needle and thread. She keeps a small knapsack for food, water and an extra pair of clothes for when the ones she’s wearing become too stained with blood.

She has taken to meditating before she gives in to sleep. She tries to stay sane, keeping one-sided conversations with Mike and Terry, telling them stories of the life they’d had. They don’t understand, but she does. And she remembers. At night, she listens to the grunts of them smacking against a tree in their futile attempts to get to her, and she looks down as best as she can into their empty expressions. They no longer hold even a hint of their former selves. She does not cry.

When she comes across a small and silent town, she decides to look for stimulation. She slips the katana into its sheath and lowers the hood on her jacket and walks past the post office into the library. People can’t be trusted but she has to stay her. She has to maintain some tie to who she was before all of this happened. The last time she held a book in her hand feels so long ago now. She breathes in their slightly musty scent, and her fingers graze the shelves with reverence. 

She cannot spare the space in her bag for many, but she keeps her katana in one hand as she searches the shelves for her two favorite books. They’ll be all she has for a while yet.

Her body aches, and she decides to rest for a while. She goes to one of the study tables in the back with her books in hand and lays down on it, knees bent. She stares up at the ceiling listening for any sounds. She cannot get lost in the moment here. Nowhere is safe, but after minutes of silence, she opens Night by Eli Wiesel and reads.

His words resonate, and when she walks outside, her bag slightly heavier, she looks up at the clear blue sky, clouds floating idly by. For a moment, in the quietness, what was lost is reconciled with what life has become.

分

The sound of voices. Her eyes adjust to the dark as she blinks the sleep from them, already reaching for her katana. She is showered and in clean clothes for the first time in months. It is harder than one would think to happen upon a house that is not only safe and easy to clear but has clothes even remotely her size. The baggier the clothes are on her frame, the more likely they’ll get caught in something when it matters most.

She is in comfortable jeans and a fresh top, and she really doesn’t want to have to kill anybody and get blood on them.

No, not voices. One voice. She silently rolls off of the bed, having made sure she wouldn’t be sleeping in a squeaky mattress when she scoped the place out. A man’s voice. She moves to the door and turns the handle slowly, cracking the door open just enough for her to make out what he is saying.

“Hello? Is there anybody in here?”

She narrows her eyes and tries to listen for more footsteps, but whether he is truly alone or her battering heart is drowning out other footsteps, she can only hear one pair of what must be cowboy boots clicking against the linoleum.

Her movements cause Mike and Terry to turn toward her, emitting tortured groans. And drawing the man upstairs, no doubt. She shuts the door, gently releases the knob, and locks it. 

She hastens to her bag, shoves her arms into the straps, and snatches up the katana. 

“Hello?” 

She pushes the bedroom window open and climbs out onto the terrace. She bypasses the dust-covered chairs and looks over the ledge. It is a short drop, one floor above the ground. She surveys the area, looking for any of his friends, but she senses no movement, hears nothing but his tepid calls and Mike and Terry. 

She pauses. Mike. She turns her head back to the bedroom. The knob rattles, and she climbs down, hangs by her hands to shorten the fall. She lets her body go limp to absorb the impact of the fall and puts her hand on the katana before she even rises. There is nothing.

She picks a direction and rushes away.

分

She does not know how long it takes for her to start to feel it. She finds a house that was owned by someone with just enough money to keep other people out. In a quick walk around the house, she sees no stickers for a security system and picks the lock.

She walks through the house without making a sound, checking for both the living and the dead. It takes her twenty or thirty minutes, she thinks. This house has far too many closets to hide in, but they are all filled with extra blankets, towels and the like. She is completely alone, though, with the owner having taken care of himself in his bed. Beside him lies a photo. She brushes away the dust and eyes the smiling woman.

Her eyes prick, and she puts it down. She is generally unaffected by the hundreds of reavers she kills, the tens of houses with idyllic family photos splashed with blood and the emptiness of towns as the living hide from each other and the dead. It is too much to allow herself to feel all the time. But every now and then, the magnitude of the loss hits her, and she wants to cry for what once was. She wonders if this woman was lost to him at work or trying to make her way back here; she wonders if she felt pain, if it was quick and what her days were filled with before her life was taken from her. She wonders if she’s still walking around, aimless and a shell of her former self.

And she wonders if she will be the same one day: lost and forgotten. It is then that she recognizes the persistent ache in her chest that she had refused to examine as loneliness. She has finally begun to feel alone.

She wiggles the arm holding the katana like she is casting away her thoughts.

She finds it in the basement. A large swimming pool with jets of water still going at its base. Self-cleaning, she surmises. And heated. It may be one of the silliest things to do but she takes a shower to wash off the grime of the past few weeks and then enters the pool naked. She cannot bring herself to wear one of the woman’s suits.

She swims laps up and down the length of the pool until sweat begins to mingle with the water on her face. She stops then, knowing she will need her strength if this house is found. Her katana lies at the edge of the pool near the deep end, and she holds onto a dagger as she floats. Its weight in her hand does not stop her mind from quieting. She shuts her eyes and a wave of peace falls over her.

Death is inevitable, and she realizes that she wants to be missed. She wants to be smiled at again, to be held in an embrace that brings both comfort and strength. She exhales and resists her instinct to dismiss these desires as frivolous and sentimental. There is nothing so human as the yearning to love and be loved back.

Several weeks later, she lets the sound of a scream draw her.


	2. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come back.

It must be the boy who screamed. There are two men arguing over a gun and a boy with his hands tied behind his back. She can hear his cries from her vantage point but cannot make out anyone’s face in the dark. The bulkier man points his gun at the boy but the leaner one pushes his arm down, and the two men start to grapple with each other for the weapon. A wrench is thrown and dodged in the fight, and Michonne watches as the reavers enclosed in the building now make their way through the broken window.

She takes in the tension and distrust between the men even as they fight the reavers together, a team. Whatever she is looking for, this is not it, but she finds herself moving forward to help anyway. The leaner man kills a reaver approaching the bulkier one from behind. The katana allows Michonne to cut through the crowd with ease. Body after body falls and the sound draws the reavers toward her and away from the men. One retreats in a defensive stance; the other has finally stopped shooting that gun.

A reaver is dragged away from her left, head banged on the ground until its movements cease, but Michonne does not stop to watch. Hands gripping her katana, her heart thumps louder than the bodies falling.

When all that is left is heavy breathing, her arms slack at her sides with exertion, and the sniffles of the boy, she turns to find the men staring at her. She raises her katana slightly and flicks it sharply to remove what brain matter and blood she can before sheathing it. Her gaze is assessing and without fear as she looks at the leaner man’s hand flexing and relaxing on the gun. She raises her eyes to meet his and raises her head with an inhale. She doesn’t need this. She shouldn’t need this.

“Where’d you come from?” the brawny man asks. He has a southern lilt to his voice, but he speaks fast, and his voice is gravelly. There is blood on his cheek that he does not move to wipe off.

Nowhere, she thinks but says nothing. The man takes a quick threatening step toward her. “Where did you come from?” he repeats, dragging each word out. She raises her chin defiantly, and she does nothing to stop the snarl on her lips from forming.

He charges her, and Michonne kicks her leg out into his stomach. Her hand feels empty without her katana, but she is conscious of the gun the other man holds. Her attacker falls to the ground clutching his stomach and growling like an animal.

The other man intervenes before he can attack again. “That’s enough,” he says to his companion. He looks at Michonne for a moment and then sighs. “I’m Rick Grimes. I was a deputy just outside Atlanta when the world --- You’re a good fighter. I can see that. You could probably take both of us if I didn’t have this here gun,” he allows. “But I’m thinking there’s a reason you helped us.”

The man on the floor glares at her as he rises. Her body is still and her eyes are fixed on Rick.

“Have you got people?” he asks. His tone is undemanding and curious.

Good cop, bad cop, she thinks and shakes her head once.

“Not anymore,” he surmises. He nods like he expected this. “You can join us --”

“She ain’t with us ‘til I say she is,” his partner sneers. “Crazy lady with a sword and you want to take her back with us?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be with you,” she mocks. Both men turn to her, slightly incredulous. The big man covers it up with anger quick enough for a smile to flit across her face. “Way I see it, I saved your lives. If whatever people you’ve got are as petty and simple as you...” she raises her hands with a shrug.

Both men fought well enough for the number of reavers, but she cannot bear the type of carelessness that allowed them to scuffle out here in the open.

The harsher man gives a hoarse laugh, but it is the smaller man that speaks.

“Way I see it, you’re out here on your own.” He pauses with a smile of his own. “These days we need other people just to survive. Always have, I guess.” He sighs. “Now, you’re a good fighter, quick and that sword has surely got you this far, but it won’t last.” His eyes fall on the boy still crying at their feet. “That luck’s gonna run out, and you’re gonna need us just as much as we might need you.”

Her brows furrow.

He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he says, “We can’t have you join us if we don’t know who you are. You can tell us about yourself, or you can take our thanks and keep walking.”

“How long you had this kid tied up?”

“Few days. He attacked us. We haven’t figured out what to do with him.”

“I’d like to hear him tell it.”

“He’ll lie,” he says with a tilt of his head. His expression does not change, but it disturbs her nonetheless.

“I could too.”

“But I’m thinking you won’t.” There is a beat of silence.

“Michonne.” She leans against the bus behind her, eyes passing over the area. She wants to move away from the stench of the bodies, but she prefers the safety of keeping both men in her eyesight and an empty building behind her. “I don’t know how long I’ve been out here now.” She isn’t sure what else to say. She had people but her losing them is already understood, and what else is there? “I survived.”

Her life is all that’s left to her.

“What did you do, before?”

“I practiced law, specializing in appeals for the wrongfully convicted. I graduated Columbia, high honors, and worked with the Innocence Project. I learned to use this,” she gestures to the katana, “after. And I haven’t stopped one place long enough to think of much else but surviving. How many people are in your group?”

“Fifteen or so.”

“Women? Children?”

“We got a few. My wife - ex-wife, we’re, ahem - there’s Lori and Andrea, Carol. We came up on a farm not too long back, and they’ve got a woman, Maggie, and a girl. And you can come with us.”

“Why?”

“Well just like you said, Michonne. You saved our lives.”

分

She follows two paces behind Rick. Shane brings up the rear. He has one hand firmly grasped around the boy’s arm and the other loose at his side. It was empty of a weapon the last time she looked, and she has to resist turning around to look again. She doesn’t trust either of these men, but Shane looks more like the type of man who would leave her dead if it would save his own behind.

Whatever he was before, it is gone now. She can see it in his unyielding eyes, shifting from open fury to bitter resentment from one moment to the next.

“We were on the road for a while after our camp was overrun with walkers,” Rick says.

“Walkers?” she asks.

“Those,” he hesitates to call them people and instead grunts, “things you killed back there. Everybody’s got a different name for ‘em. What’s yours?”

“Reavers,” she answers. She has heard them called the stereotypical zombies but never walkers.

He nods and points to a house off in the distance. It is surrounded by land with a forest at its back. “That farm isn’t really ours. It belongs to a man named Hershel. He owns it with his two girls, and we’re hoping he’ll let us stay.” He turns around to face her and stops walking, “life out here is hard, too hard for some people.”

She nods thoughtfully, thinking of the children he said are in their group. Every defenseless person in a group lowers the chance of survival of the whole on the outside. It was why she and Mike had decided to stay at their camp when things had started to get bad.

He resumes walking when she is at his side.

“I’m sure you know,” he says, giving her a sidelong glance.

The structures around the house become clearer as they get closer. The first thing she notices are the horses. They are penned in, and the farm, for it really is that, is spacious with bales of hay for them to eat and a small garden of fruits and vegetables. A large oak tree near the house supports a rope swing. 

An RV is parked beside the house, and it is not streaked with blood, which makes her wonder if they have running water or if someone took the time to lug buckets of water from a well to wash it down.

It wouldn’t be the most ridiculous thing in the world to do, she thinks. On the road, it would not be worth the hassle to keep it clean, but here, it could be someone’s home.

The house itself is moderately sized for the land it occupies. The path towards it is clear, and nostalgia makes Michonne’s chest tight. The door swings open before they reach it. An older man with a potbelly and a white beard appears. A woman with short brown hair and a gun drawn in Michonne’s direction comes to stand beside him.

Rick raises a hand to still Michonne and jogs up the steps to the porch. She cannot hear their discussion, but, as it progresses, the man’s mouth only becomes thinner. Rick steps forward and pushes the nozzle of the gun down with his hand. Whatever he says next causes the man to turn to her, nodding once and motioning Michonne forward. 

Shane scoffs, muttering to himself, and pulls the boy with him toward the back of the house. Rick’s eyes follow them for a moment before finding Michonne, who has not moved. He nods to her and gestures for her to join them.

She stops at the bottom of the steps. The old man comes down a few and offers his hand.

“I’m Hershel Greene, and this is my daughter, Maggie,” he says.

She takes his hand and nods to Maggie in greeting. “Michonne.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michonne. You’re welcome to a shower and some food if you’d like,” Hershel offers.

“I can take you,” Maggie says.

A giggle sounds from inside the house, and Michonne takes a step back. She is feet away from one of her much-loved showers, but this house, with its sounds of joy, semi-fresh coat of paint, and a walkway free of rocks and other debris, provides an illusion of safety that unsettles her. A knot forms in her stomach, and she shakes her head and retreats back another step. There is an awkward pause in which Rick and Hershel exchange a glance.

Embarrassed, Michonne walks up the steps, her heart racing. “That would be nice.”

Her smile is brittle, and she turns her eyes away from Maggie’s curious expression. She follows her inside, feeling Rick’s eyes heavy on her back. 

分

This isn’t your home, Rick, and it isn’t going to be. I want all of your people gone by the end of the week. Including her.

As Rick watches Michonne leave with Maggie, her muscles tense, he is filled with helpless rage and indignation. He has to take a breath to calm himself before he snaps at Hershel, but it is clearer to him now than it ever was. Every time they leave the farm, there is a chance that one of them won’t come back.

Andrea’s sister is dead and so is Carol’s husband. Sophia is missing. They have already lost too much. 

Instead of broaching the topic with Hershel, who has been increasingly stubborn with each conversation, Rick only looks at him.

Hershel returns his gaze. He knows what Rick wants. It’s what he’d want for his kin: food, shelter, and safety. But he has his own family to look out for, too, and he won’t be moved on this no matter how much guilt seeing a woman arrive alone, having lost everyone, makes him feel.

“I watched her kill ten walkers like it was nothing,” Rick says, looking away finally. “You send us out there, maybe we don’t all survive. Or maybe we find some place and ride this out until there’s a solution. Maybe a group like Randall’s comes here and takes this place from you.” Rick fingers the blood on his hands. “Maybe Maggie ends up out there on her own just like Michonne was.

“We need each other,” Rick urges. Hershel refuses to meet his eyes, and Rick shakes his head in disgust.

“That may be, but the more people there are, the more mouths there are to feed, the more we’ll be going out looking for food and possibly leading groups like Randall’s to us. I don’t have anything against you, Rick, or what you’re trying to do. I even admire it. But you’re not welcome here, and you shouldn’t be bringing others along with you begging for a home.” He takes a steadying breath and lowers his voice. “I want y’all gone by the end of the week, Rick.”

“We’ll respect your decision,” he says in a resigned voice tinged with bitterness.

He walks into the house in search of Carl. He is still recovering from his gunshot wound, but like most kids, he doesn’t want to be bedridden unless it involves TV and snacks. He suspects that impressing Beth has something to do with it as well. He should make sure Carl is not pushing himself too hard.

He encounters Lori and Andrea in the kitchen. Andrea glances between them and heads outside. He sighs, knowing this must mean Lori has something she wants to say. He stands for a moment, debating whether or not he wants to deal with it at all, but he’d rather have the discussion now than have tension after he gets Carl.

“Everything alright today?” he asks. 

She continues to pass a dishcloth over the plates before placing them in the drying rack. “Everything’s fine, Rick,” she says in a resigned tone.

“Lori.”

She turns around to face him, resting her back on the counter. “It’s nothing. You did the right thing bringing Michonne back here. If I was out there on my own, I’d hope someone would do it for me.”

He nods. “Okay. So, why are you upset?”

“She came in here covered in blood, and my heart just…” she sighs. “It was terrifying. She’s a stranger. She could be dangerous. I know you did the right thing. She helped you; you helped her. I just wish it didn’t have to be here. With us.” She looks down, ashamed, a faint blush on her cheeks.

He comes to stand in front of her and places a hand on her shoulder. “I know what you mean. It’s hard not knowing who we can trust anymore.” He pauses a moment, looking for the right words to describe the urge to pay Michonne back for what she’d done for them, the desire to protect her that had flooded over him when Shane went to strike her. “I couldn’t leave her out there.”

Lori raises her head, eyes questioning. “Rick ---”

Feet stomp down the stairs suddenly, startling Rick away from Lori. His hand drops, and he turns toward the door. Carl’s voice calls out, “Mom? Mom!”

“We’re in here,” he calls back.

Carl runs into the kitchen with Shane following closely behind him.

“Careful, Carl. You’re still healing,” she admonishes, pulling up his shirt slightly to check that his wound has not reopened.

He pushes her hands away impatiently. “I’m fine, Mom!”

“Hey,” Rick says. “Take it easy.”

Carl pouts but mumbles, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She places a hand on his head and runs her fingers through his hair gently. “What’s got you so excited?”

Remembering why he came, his face clears, and he answers her with a little hop. “Shane said he’ll teach me to shoot if you let me learn. Can I, Mom? Can I?”

Lori looks up at Shane who shrugs.He sidles up to her and lays his arm on the countertop behind her. “Boy’s gotta learn sometime, Lori.” 

Rick fights to keep the grimace off of his face as he takes in how casually Shane invades Lori’s space in front of Carl. He glances at Carl to find his expression so earnest that he cannot be thinking of what Shane and Lori’s proximity means.

Lori shifts away from Shane. “It doesn’t have to be now while he’s still recovering.” She shakes her head and looks down at Carl, whose face is scrunching furiously. “I’m sorry, baby. You need your rest. When you’re healed, your father can teach you.”

“We’ll both teach you,” Rick interjects, seeing how Shane’s face darkened. “After Hershel clears you.”

“But I feel fine!”

“In another week or two, you’ll be it. Now’s not the time to be taking chances. It’ll keep.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Carl nods with a sigh. “Alright.” Shane knocks his knuckles gently beneath Carl’s chin. “Alright,” he repeats. His shoulders are slumped, and he gives a small smile before exiting the room. Rick gives Lori and Shane a nod before following him out.

分

Michonne pauses in front of the bathroom mirror. Each time she sees her reflection, she is slightly disappointed in the lack of change she sees in it. Everything has changed for her, but the only discernable difference in her face is a more sculpted jaw from a lack of heavy food and the dimness of light in her eyes. There is not much to be joyful about these days.

She sits down on the closed toilet seat and undoes the laces of her boots. She kicks them off and toes off her socks. She rests her hands on her thighs for a moment. Standing, she removes her vest and tank top, dropping them on the tile. She rolls her neck as she removes her undergarments.

She reaches into the shower to turn on the faucet. The water warms quickly, and she smiles. She steps into its spray, pulling the curtain shut. The water runs down her body, clearing away the grime stuck to her skin and soothing her muscles. She reaches for a bar of soap and, using the washcloth Maggie provided her with, starts to clean herself.

She hears the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. She squeezes her eyes shut against images of Mike coming up the stairs, humming a lullaby to Andre.

She clears her throat and focuses on cleaning herself. There is no telling how long the water lasts. She turns off the water, wiping the excess off of her face before reaching for her towel. After she is relatively dry, she squeezes water from her dreads and wraps them in the towel. She rubs lotion into her skin slowly and thinks of what she has seen so far of this group.

Of the people she has interacted with, Shane is the only one who has been openly hostile. She does not know if his impatience toward her is exacerbated by his earlier fight with Rick, or if he is as hot-headed and cruel as he seems. She is aware that age does not determine innocence, but the rough way he dragged the boy along with them concerned her.

Yet, she prefers his gruffness to Rick’s gentleness. Pity underlies his every word to her, and in those moments, when he was looking at her with his soft expression and searching eyes, she felt closer to tears than she had those months alone on the road. It is only when someone shows compassion that the weight of grief overwhelms.

She turns her mouth, nibbling at her lower lip. Rick did not seem the sort to judge her harshly because of a show of pain, but there are others here who would rather she not join them, she reminds herself, thinking of Hershel. He was cordial and hospitable, but he clearly did not want her in his home. Granted, from what Rick said, he doesn’t want Rick’s group to stay at all let alone a stranger.

She pulls on the jeans and t-shirt Maggie lent her, both hugging her body. Whether she should want to stay with these people is unclear, but she does not know that she will be able to find a half-decent group of people. It is colder every day and, before long, people will be buckling down to ride out the winter.

She goes to the room that is to be hers. She lies on the full bed, careless of the wetness clinging to her hair seeping through the towel into the comforter. She stares at the white ceiling, feeling the sun shine on her face through the open window. She breathes in the fresh air and listens for the sound of nature.

The breeze carries the sound of horses neighing and indistinct chatter. Someone laughs a deep, belly laugh as Michonne relaxes into the mattress.

分

She is startled awake by a loud noise. She reaches across the bed for her katana, her heart already beating fast as she blinks the sleep from her eyes. 

“Beth! Beth!” she hears a woman cry, her voice increasingly desperate. “Beth!”

Michonne rolls out of bed, withdrawing her katana from its sheath and opening the door. She holds it up and steps into the hallway, expecting to find a bloody Beth and an attacking reaver. Instead, Maggie and Lori, both still human, are trying to enter a locked room. Maggie’s face is panic-stricken and streaked with tears.

“Open the door, Beth,” Lori urges. 

She sees no immediate danger, and her grip on the katana loosens slightly. She walks toward them. “What is it?” she asks.

Maggie spares her a glance and resumes calling to Beth, banging on the door with her open hand.

Lori explains, “Beth has been having a hard time, and we just heard glass break.” She waves her hand at the locked door.

Michonne inspects the immovable door. “Move over,” she says.

Lori purses her lips and then steps aside. 

Maggie slams her body into the door, but it holds firm. “Move over,” Michonne repeats more loudly. Maggie does not appear to hear her, and Michonne forces her aside with a shove of her body. 

She assesses the door quickly. She pushes the swordpoint into the wall beside the knob, cutting away a half-circle. She hits the lock’s metal and widens it. Chips of wood fall to the ground at her feet. When she has broken this bit of wall away from the rest, the door opens easily enough.

Maggie shuffles past her into the bathroom with a wordless cry.

Michonne’s hesitant gaze follows Maggie as she drops down beside Beth, heedless of the bits of glass digging into her knees and the blood beginning to pool around Beth. She grabs onto her wrists instinctively. Beth’s sobs shake her body. She rests her head on Maggie’s shoulders and begins to speak.

Michonne cannot hear her from where she stands spectating. Lori falls to her knees, one hand covering her mouth and the other holding onto the doorframe.

Maggie’s wide eyes find hers. “Daddy. Get Daddy.”

Michonne nods, hurries down the hallway and the stairs. Her head whips left and right at the base, looking for Hershel. She goes to the kitchen, hoping to find him, but it is empty.

“Hershel,” she calls, passing by an empty dining room and living room. There is no one on the first floor that she can see. She is not familiar with the house as it is and does not want to waste time opening and closing closet doors while Beth bleeds out on the floor. She runs to the front door and steps out onto the porch. No one.

Her eyes scan the yard. Rick is walking a horse around the pen. A child sits with his legs between the rungs of the fence. An old man and a blond woman are on top of the RV. Rick is further away, but she reasons quickly that he was a cop and may know what to do to staunch the bleeding. She hops down the stairs and runs toward him, already yelling his name.

His head turns her way and, seeing her, slips between bars of the fence and jogs in her direction, the boy following close behind him.

Meeting halfway, she rests her hand on his forearm and says breathlessly, “Beth is hurt. Inside.” He takes off at breakneck speed.

They reach the house, and Michonne directs, “Upstairs.” He runs up the stairs, and the boy moves to follow him.

Michonne catches his wrist, holding him back.

“Let go,” he commands.

“You should stay down here,” she says. He tugs at his wrist, but Michonne refuses to release it. With his brown hair peeking out from beneath the Sheriff’s hat falling down to his ears, she is sure that this is Rick’s son. “Your dad needs to concentrate on helping Beth. He needs you to stay down here.” His eyes narrow, and he looks ready to argue. “I could be helping, too,” she says. “But I’m down here with you.”

Carl’s eyes shift upstairs. He looks back at her and rolls his eyes. “Fine.” Michonne holds his gaze for a moment. “I’ll stay here,” he says impatiently. “Go. Help her.”

She nods and releases his wrist. He stays put, and she hurries up the stairs. Rick is on his way down. She continues up the stairs and heads to the bathroom.

Maggie has washcloths pressed against Beth’s wrists. Lori has not moved.

“I couldn’t find him,” Michonne says.

“I know,” Maggie says. “Rick’s looking for his medicine bag. I know how to stitch a wound together. It’d be better if Daddy did it is all. But she’s lost too much blood already. We can’t wait.” Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head. She sniffles and straightens her back. “She’ll be okay, though.” She turns to Michonne. “Thanks to you.”

With Beth’s blood soaking into the washcloths, it does not feel as if she has done much. But Michonne nods all the same and steps aside when Rick returns with the medicine bag.

He holds onto Beth’s wrists while Maggie searches the bag for the tools she needs. She pours alcohol quickly over her hands, the tools and then over Beth’s wrists. Maggie gives a sympathetic wince when the alcohol hits Beth’s wounds, shushing her when she cries out.

Her heartbeat slowing, Michonne stands on the peripheral watching Beth’s slight wrists be mended. The lack of adrenaline leaves her weak and tired. She takes a step towards her room, eyes still on the scene that could have easily ended tragically. 

Rick looks up at the sound of her feet retreating, and their eyes meet. Michonne can sense the gratitude in his nod, the deepening warmth in his gaze as he looks at her.

分

Shock and grief make dinner a quiet affair.

Across from him, Maggie alternates between wiping tears from her eyes and clasping Glenn’s hand firmly in hers on the table. Beth is absent, as is Lori who is watching over her after her suicide attempt that afternoon. Despite her profuse apologies, no one wants to take the chance that she will not try again if left alone.

Daryl is presumably with Carol, who has not joined them for a meal since Sophia was found. Carl sulks, periodically moving his food around his plate. Rick cannot bring himself to reprimand him. His own food sours on his tongue.

Eventually, Carl asks to be excused. Rick nods, and the rest of them take it as a cue that they can leave the depressing gathering.

“By the end of the week,” Hershel says, standing at the back of his chair.

Rick only nods. He can no longer blame him or find words to contest his decision. If anyone had enabled Carl hurting himself like that, he would do worse than send them off. He can’t fathom what Andrea was thinking. She herself was suicidal and has since decided to live. These decisions shouldn’t be made with despair clouding judgment.

He sighs and clears the table, wrapping up Carl’s food for tomorrow’s lunch. He makes two fresh plates of salad, macaroni and cheese, chicken and bread rolls. He leaves one covered downstairs for Lori and brings the other along with him up the stairs.

He raps his knuckles softly on the door. He is unsurprised by the lack of a response. She hadn’t responded to Maggie earlier either. Upset or not, she has to eat. He turns the knob and peers in. She sits up abruptly, reaching for the katana. She lets go of the handle when her eyes adjust to the light coming in from the hallway and she is able to recognize him.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he says, coming fully into the room.

She takes a deep breath and stands, her hand out for the plate. “Thanks,” she murmurs, plopping back down, a carrot already between her teeth. She looks up at him as she chews.

“What you did today, you saved Beth’s life.” 

She swallows and appraises him thoughtfully. “I broke the door. You found the bag. Maggie stitched her wound. We all had a hand in it.” She sighs and puts the plate on the nightstand.

His gaze follows the movement. He stops himself from shrugging away the full feeling in his chest. “You know, they say if you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them.”

She blinks. “I’m not responsible for anyone, Rick,” she says, looking up.

He senses the deep pain her flat affect is hiding. Her back has straightened, and he knows that anything he says now will bounce off the walls she has raised.

The desire to get past them is strong.

He doesn’t know this woman. No matter how long the day has felt, it’s only been a day. Maybe, he shouldn’t care this much. But he can’t help but think of who he would be if he’d been out there longer and not been able to find Carl or Lori, to not know if they were alive or dead. He thinks of who Andrea could become still after Amy’s loss.

Grief makes strangers of us all, he thinks. 

He breathes in, nodding, bringing his focus back to Michonne. He wasn’t exaggerating when he told Hershel that Michonne could be any one of them. He doesn’t have to know her well to know that as an activist and lawyer, she didn’t shy away from responsibility before the way she is now. He doesn’t have to know her well to care, because he does care. He cares. And he vows to himself that he will help her come back to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really want to thank my beta @charrrmed for her input!


End file.
